By mid afternoon Dan was back from work.
“I’m
looking for some authentic Buffalo shit. What’ve you got for me?”
“Ever been to
Broderick Park?”
In the
middle of the Niagara river, less than twelve miles upstream of the falls, sat a
small island. The bulk of the landmass housed a water treatment facility, but at
the northern tip lay a quaint city
park. Connected to mainland Buffalo by a small footbridge on the east, the fast
moving waters off it’s western edge belonged to Ontario. Taking in foliage
and fresh river air, Dan and I walked around and bullshat - watching kids play
on the swings and petting dogs as they passed by. In a quiet corner right close
to the water sat an old stone foundation and the remnants of a few walls and a
stairway, once part of some twentieth century cement structure. The ruins were
a local tagging mecca of sorts, and Dan showed me some of his favorite pieces.
A little more strolling, and it was back across the footbridge to the car.
After a
quick stop at a pizza joint, Dan dropped me off at his place and continued on
to job number two. Borrowing his laptop, I caught up on a backlog of Daily Show
episodes, and proceeded to lie down for a nap.
[Despite being on an overt
adventure, I refused to give up my pension for sleep. No matter how exciting or
novel my location, I had zero problem slumbering ‘til two pm, eating some
breakfast, and heading back down for a much deserved siesta. Some call me a
slacker, others lethargic. Really I’m just a lover of dreams. (And a bit of a
slacker.)]
The evening
took us to our second seemingly-abandoned warehouse in just as many nights - this time in a less desolate part of town. Walking up the stairs I was struck by
the odd mix-useedness of the building: a punk band rehearsing in a recording
studio, the offices of Local 10 (the Buffalo chapter of the Stagehands’ union
I was destined to join), and finally our destination, Verve Dance Studios, for their monthly youth break-dancing competition.
The crowd
at the throwdown was just as eclectic as the building itself: a refreshing
mixture of races and ages, especially after the vanillocity of Geneseo. The cap for the competition itself
was eighteen, but the kids had it down. With a DJ spinning, two
competitors would face off, trading routines. Applause determined whom moved on
to the next round. The space was packed with flirting teenagers and parents
buying their kids lids done up by the aerosol-artist
in the corner. We posted up with one of Dan’s friends and her
adorable five year old.
After an
hour or so of increasingly fly moves, a winner was declared. The crowd petered
out and we moved on. By the time we arrived, Pearl Street
was bumpin: three floors, various bars
and dining areas, maybe even a dance-floor or two. A few other Geneseo cats
were already there waiting for our hang. We found em in a quiet corner shooting pool and sipping Street Brawler Stouts.
Not wanting to spend bank on
brewhouse food, Dannie and I ran around the block for a slice. I busted out spliff
number two of my road-stockpile in preparation for the modest feast ahead.
Before we finished our slices we got a call from the crew. We were moving on to
Chippowa.
There are hot sick messes. And then
there are shitshows. And then there’s West Chippowa Street at midnight on a Saturday: a
five block stretch in the heart of downtown Buffalo with shitty club after
shitty bar after shitty club. The throngs of duchbags knew no bounds, as if the
strip had been cordoned off for some disgraceful parade of Labatt-light-loving
twenty-four-year-old post-econ-majors. We entered a bar called OMEGA. I rolled my eyes. With a beer in
hand we stepped out onto the patio. Dan, running off the high of the
breakdancing competition (and the high of the weed no doubt) broke out his
fluid moves to the crap music bumping our ears. The ladies were impressed.
Running off the same high (as well
as a light drunk and my pension for subversion and naiveté) I set my Blue Moon aside
and stepped to the police officer posting guard outside the bar. He was standing, arms
folded, board as shit.
“Excuse me officer. What’s going
on?”
“What do you mean?”
I looked down the street. There
were at least three cops per block as far as the eye could see, with squad cars
parked every thirty yards.
“The police presence. I can’t
remember the last time I saw a force out like this. Something’s gotta be going
down.”
“Nope.”
“You mean this is standard fair for
a Saturday night??”
“Yep.”
“Holy crap! The fuck you guys
looking for?!”
“Looking to make money.”
It took me a few seconds for it to sink in.
“Wowwww. That’s absurd.”
He let out a monosyllabic laugh. “Yeah, well...that’s the way it goes.”
“I guess so. Well, thanks for your
time.”
“No problem” he said, accepting the
departing low-five I offered.
The rest of the posse was only
slightly more tolerant of the scene than I, and with my encouragement we were
shortly headed out. After a few daps to
departing friends, Dan and I made our way back to the car. As we pulled into
his driveway, he noticed the lights still on in the neighbor’s house. I was
informed that Vanessa and Mary were pretty cool cats who’d been in town just a
few months, and as the night was still young (2am) we decided to see what they
were up to. It wasn’t anything too exciting, but we hung for half an hour,
making snarky comments at reality TV shows and finishing off the half-smoked bowl
sitting on the coffee table.
